After I step out of the tub and wrap the fluffy towel around my body, I stand for a few seconds in front of the mirror without breathing, as if the image staring back at me belongs to someone else and I'm not yet sure I have the right to claim it.
I am thin—thinner than I remember—with my collarbones sharply pronounced and faint marks on my skin that won't fade anytime soon. And in my eyes something has settled that wasn't there before: an old, heavy weariness that has nothing to do with lack of sleep.
And yet my hair—that cinnamon shade that has drawn so many glances, so many comments, and so much trouble over the years—now falls softly over my shoulders, clean and gleaming, almost beautiful in a way that irritates me.
The irony hits so hard that a short, slightly hysterical laugh slips out of me, because it's absurd to look better in the middle of a nightmare than I've felt in days.
I run my fingers through my hair and look at myself once more, trying to find something solid there, something that reminds me who I am beyond the fear.
I go back into the bedroom wearing only the towel, because I have nothing else to put on, and the thought of pulling that stiff, dirty shirt—soaked in blood—over my skin makes it crawl.
The bedroom strikes me again with its quiet luxury: the heavy drapes, the enormous bed, the warm light spilling over the furniture. For a moment I feel like a princess in a horror story—a princess kept in a tower not to be rescued, but to be controlled.
I sit on the edge of the bed and let the towel cover my knees, and the thought that all this comfort is not a gift but a strategy makes me straighten my back.
The soft knock at the door makes me flinch.
Clarisse steps in carrying a tray, and the smell of warm food suddenly reminds me that I haven't eaten properly in days.
"You need to eat," she says calmly, setting the tray on the table. "Your body needs strength."
I watch her in silence, trying to decide whether her kindness is real or just part of the décor.
"Listen to me," she continues, more quietly. "Eat. You survive here if you know when to speak and when to stay silent. Be careful what you say. Respect the rules. Don't try to force things."
Her tone isn't threatening—it's sincere. And that unsettles me more than if she had shouted.
"I met Duca," she adds after a moment. "He's a fair man."
Something detonates inside me.
"Fair?" I repeat, and my voice comes out sharper than I intend. "I'm being held here against my will and you're talking about fairness?"
I realize I'm shaking, but I don't stop.
"A fair man doesn't tie you up, doesn't lock you away, doesn't make you feel like your life hangs on a whim."
Clarisse studies me for a long moment, without contradicting me.
"His world isn't your world," she says simply. "That doesn't mean it has no rules."
Rules.
The word scrapes along my nerves.
"And his rules make him fair?" I ask, almost in a whisper.
She folds her hands in front of her.
"I'm not trying to excuse him. I'm only telling you that things are more complicated than they seem."
I lean back, exhausted by my own anger.
"For me, they're not complicated at all," I say. "They're simple. I'm a prisoner. I'll probably die here and it will all be for nothing. I didn't do any of the things he's accusing me of."
Clarisse doesn't insist.
"Eat," she repeats gently. "And rest."
She leaves without slamming the door, leaving behind the scent of warm soup and a heavy hollow in my chest.
I'm alone with my anger, with a disappointment that is beginning to ache more sharply than fear, and I realize that somewhere along the way I chose to believe in Duca more than I should have.
I didn't see the signs. I didn't want to see them.
The way his gaze was too sharp. The way he controlled every space he entered. The ease with which people obeyed him without ever asking why.
I mistook protection for power. I mistook desire for safety. And now I'm paying for it.
I draw a deep breath and tell myself that if I want to leave this place whole, I'll have to save myself.
There are no princes. No romantic rescues. There is only me and my mind.
I eat quickly because I need to rebuild my strength. The food is divine.
When I'm done, I get up and start searching the room—through drawers, closets, the bathroom, every corner where something useful might exist: an object, a blade, anything I could use to defend myself if I had to.
I find nothing. Everything is beautiful, clean, harmless.
I brace myself against the sink and, without meaning to, feel everything I've been holding inside begin to give way. The tears come without warning—hot, uncontrollable—and I let myself cry until I can't breathe, until my body exhausts itself.
I cry for Gaston.
I cry for myself.
I cry for my stupidity.
When I finally calm down, I suddenly realize I forgot to ask Clarisse for clothes.
I look around—at the empty wardrobe, at the towel long since gone cold against my skin—and I feel too tired to call for anyone.
I slip naked into the bed, under the soft sheet, and close my eyes without fighting it. One thing at a time. We do what we can. I've eaten—now I'll sleep and gather my strength.
Sleep comes quickly, deep and heavy, as if my body had been waiting for this exact moment to collapse.
And for a few hours, I am nothing but an exhausted body at rest.
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